


Her narrative

by LiveOakWithMoss



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Epistolary, Gen, Humor, Tumblr: legendariumladiesapril
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-07
Updated: 2016-04-07
Packaged: 2018-05-31 18:27:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6482005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveOakWithMoss/pseuds/LiveOakWithMoss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nerdanel writes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Her narrative

**Author's Note:**

> 0\. Inspired by Legendarium Ladies April [general prompt 3](http://legendariumladiesapril.tumblr.com/post/142340945478/legendarium-ladies-april-prompts-for-april-06) (one near and dear to my heart.) It is a loose-ish interpretation of the prompt, but one that came to me when I thought of textual ghosts and the issue of narrative - and the image, of course, [of letters and fire](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1CFOuGqBSEE).
> 
> 1\. Dates are rough, forgive me if I fudged them a little. This is mostly humorous, with a slightly less humorous ending, and unavoidable and obnoxious Walden theft.

**Y.T. 1482**

Dear Sister,

I write you from my reclusive cabin in the woods. Its full footprint in its entirety is smaller than my solar in Tirion, with only rough sod for flooring. I find myself imagining planting beans and living deliberately, though I forgot to bring any bean seeds. Still, a true hermit of the wilds am I! I came here for quiet meditation, contemplation, and artistic inspiration. Every fair sounding ‘-tion’ I could think of, in fact. I wish to write you and tell you you were 100% wrong on every count, that I achieved exactly my aims, and that there is no need to send a rescue mission. No healing need I that a fresh draught of morning air cannot provide!

At least, that is what I _wished_ to write. I can’t.

Because you were entirely correct.

I passed one hour in meditation, spent all my psychic capital imagining what Fëanáro would look like with his stupid hair on fire, and then got off the floor. I went over to the window to do some deliberate living instead, and found myself reliving our last fight. I am full of regrets. Why didn’t I think of ‘lisping arse-twiddling pedant’ when we were yelling at each other???? I think my final word to him was ‘HAH as if’, which I may regret until the end of Ages.

Anyway, I didn’t even reach ‘artistic inspiration’ before the window was broken (a form of art in itself, arguably! Remember that ‘art by installment’ exhibit we went to in Alqualondë?) and then I must have entered some fugue state. All I know is that the chair has no legs now, and the door is crooked on its hinges.

I need that rescue mission you promised, dear sister. Bring liquor.

Love,  
Nerdanel

* * *

**Y.T. 1495**

Dear Anairë,

Sweetest friend, I can only imagine what you are going through right now. (In fact, I needn’t imagine. Alas that I know all too well.) On the one hand I wish to comfort you with the fact that Nolofinwë is only Fëanáro’s relation by half, and therefore has half the stupid and may yet reconsider, but we all know that ‘heinously ill-advised decision-making’ is the dominant allele in that family. 

My sister is telling me that I should not be so harsh, that you have lost husband and children to mad adventure and fey temptation, and that I should be sympathetic rather than bitter, but I told her that this is how I demonstrate sympathy.

In all seriousness, I hope you are doing well, love, or as well as can be expected given the circumstances. Remember that your children are good and full of valor, and that I have no doubts they will do their mother proud. Your husband is good and full of valor as well, even when his wits have gone wandering up his bumhole. I know you are seeking solace with dear Eärwen right now, and she will give you far better comfort than my feeble rantings.

That said, when you are done with the tears and soft touches of consolation, I recommend you join me in my rebuilt cabin by Luvailin. I have white liquor from the huntresses, and we can burn Nolofinwë’s old shirts.

Love,  
Nerdanel

* * *

Dear Arafinwë,

Good to see you back again, I always knew you were the best brained of the brethren.

One question: Could you not have smuggled back even a single wayward child underneath that fluffy white cloak of yours??? Anairë, Eärwen, and I are skeptical.

Come for dinner some time, I’ve been told my baking has improved.

Your ~~ex-half-sister-in-law?~~ friend,  
Nerdanel

* * *

**Y.T. 1480**

My dear ones,

I write this only for myself, as there is no bird I can summon by Manwë’s graces to bear it to you. Be that as it may, I write to you, my seven, because you are never far from my thoughts.

I hope that you know I never blamed you. I hope that you know I was never angry with you. (Well, that is not quite true. When the news came from Alqualondë, I raged. I grieved, yes, but I raged, too.) I hope you know that my love for you has never wavered. It is both a mother’s curse and her greatest strength, they tell me, but to me it is mundane, as everyday as fresh milk and cold water. My love for my sons burns on, endures, and is familiar to me as my own palms.

I hope you are safe, but I know that is a fool’s hope. I hope you are looking out for each other, as you ever have, like we taught you. I hope you know you can trust your own minds and hearts first, and that no one else may think or feel for you. Trust in the wisdom of your good hearts, even when other voices are louder. I fear I offer this advice too late, but I send it as a wish and a prayer, because all other action towards you has been removed from me.

I say my agency towards my children may have been taken from me, but I remain unweakened and unbroken. I shall consign this letter to the flames, as I have consigned the letters your father once wrote me, as a burnt offering to the beautiful and uncaring sky.

Know that my silence is not because I have been silenced, but because I choose my own, raging, laughing, lonely and un-lonely silence. I have left my record in unspeaking stone on the wide boulevards of Tirion, as well as in the seven tall warriors who turned their faces to the East. I leave my name carved into the wood of this home on Shadowmere; I leave my name in the ash and flame of the letters I write and then destroy. No greatness of history for me, perhaps, but I choose this: My laughing loud silence over the still waters of Luvailin.

And burn the rest.

Love,  
Mama


End file.
